


Five Gifts

by tarysande



Category: Mass Effect: Andromeda
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-27
Updated: 2017-07-27
Packaged: 2018-12-07 19:05:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11629953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tarysande/pseuds/tarysande
Summary: Four gifts Jaal gave Vetra, and one she gave to him.





	Five Gifts

_Voeld_

Some time after the first trip to Voeld—where, yes, _maybe_ she’d complained just a little about the ridiculous cold—Vetra finds a piece of fabric on her workbench. It’s the exact color of her markings, which is strange. Even stranger, the small, delicately-embroidered flowers winding around the edges are gold, and if the fabric is a perfect match for her markings, she can’t help noticing the embroidery’s the same color as her eyes.

It’s a kind of tube. Weird. She has no idea what it’s for. Pretty, though. It’s also the softest, silkiest fabric she’s ever felt, which is saying something because she’s sourced some pretty fancy shit over the years.

There’s no note, no explanation. She asks around, discreetly. She knows how to be discreet. Ryder’s as confused as she is. Drack snorts. Peebee jokes about secret admirers. Figuring it might be some kind of angaran thing, she brings it to Jaal. He’s busy with something, but instead of just turning in his chair or speaking over his shoulder, he stops what he’s working on immediately, rises, and faces her directly, as if she’s now the most important thing he has to think about. She not sure she’s ever going to get used to that. He smiles when he sees the fabric in her hands, but the smile fades when she asks if he knows what it’s for.

“Ah,” he says slowly, as if savoring the single syllable. “You did not get the note?”

(She finds it later, after an office-wide search, swept aside with a pile of irritating requisitions and hiding under two boxes of cereal, one empty.)

He takes the fabric from her hands, looking for all the world like he’s about to start performing some kind of ritual, and says, “May I?”

She’s used to people _wanting_ things, of course. Half her life is spent getting things for people who want them. Jaal’s weird, though. When he asks, she always gets the sense that the question is real. If she said, _no thanks_ , he’d only incline his head and accept the refusal. She’s not used to that either.

So she says, “Sure?” still without the first clue what he’s about to do. He lifts the tube, moving his hands toward her, and though she stiffens, she doesn’t pull away. He drops the fabric over her head, where it pools in her cowl, impossibly soft against the hide of her neck. She stops herself from nuzzling into it. His hands fuss a moment longer, and though he does not actually touch her, just the heat of his hands so close is almost a caress.

She’d laugh at herself if the thought wasn’t quite so unexpectedly disconcerting.

“For when you are cold,” he says, stepping out of her personal space and taking his heat with him. She’s not sure if she’s disappointed or relieved. He tilts his head, as if admiring her, though she knows he’s probably just looking at his handiwork. “It suits you. I hoped that it would.”

“Uh, thanks,” she says, managing to keep her voice even, even if her subharmonics are all over the place. She’s pretty sure he can’t tell, anyway. Hopes he can’t.

When she finds a mirror, she has to admit it does look nice. She doesn’t really believe such a flimsy scrap of pretty nothing could possibly keep her warm, though. The next time they’re down on Voeld, though, she humors him and tries it out.

Damn if the thing doesn’t work as advertised.

 

_Aya_

She loves Aya. It’s beautiful, sure, but there’s also _real_ trade and so many new things to discover, and she’s always loved new things. And discovery, for that matter. The climate’s a relief after the insanity of Voeld and Eos, and everything _smells_ so damn good. One thing she has to hand to the angara, they’re no slouches when it comes to hygiene. Even up to their damn eyeballs in war with the kett, they still make time for beauty.

She wanders through the market, for once a tourist instead of a trader, smelling perfumes and lotions and whatever other magical potions the angara douse themselves with. Doesn’t buy anything, though; she’s always happy to shop for Sid, but she’s not big on spending on herself. Too many years saving every credit and living job to job; old habits die hard.

Back on the _Tempest_ , though, surrounded by the familiar but uninspiring scents of metal and Nomad and recycled air, she wishes she’d splurged.

“I saw you in the market,” Jaal says later, when it’s just the two of them in the galley.

“I’m hard to miss,” replies Vetra. “Not a lot of turians down there.”

She hasn’t figured out yet if she loves or hates the way he thinks about _everything_ she says, even the flippant stuff. He says, “You did not buy anything.”

She shrugs, pushing food around her plate to give her hands something to do. “Yeah, well. A lot of that stuff’s… it’s nice, but it’s extravagant. Not necessary.”

He leans forward on his forearms, watching her intently. “I disagree. If we do not remember what we fight for, do we not risk becoming no better than our enemies?”

She snorts. “You’re fighting for lotion?”

He laughs, low and deep. She can’t stop the flutter of her mandibles in response. “Yes, Vetra Nyx. I am fighting for lotion.”

Three days later, there’s a small tub of lotion on her desk. She rubs a little onto the hide of her wrist. It’s not too floral, not too sweet. It reminds her—strangely, since she’s pretty sure none of the plants are the same—of her childhood, of soil after a good rain, the feel of her dad’s big hand curled around her little one, and the sweet baby smell of Sid in her skinny arms. You know, with flowers.

Instead of saving it, instead of leaving it on her desk and smelling it, she uses the lotion every day. She finds some fabric in Kadara port she thinks Jaal will like (only, she knows, if he doesn’t _realize_ it’s from Kadara port), and trades him for more lotion when it’s gone. He insists the trade isn’t necessary. She insists it is. Besides, she wants him to have the fabric.

 

_Havarl_

After the stress of the whole _Sid-pretending-to-be-her_ thing, when Jaal asks if she—they, she and Sid both—would like to come to meet his family, she accepts _._

She worries, of course, only after she’s already agreed to go. When it would be too weird to say _hey, about that meet the family thing, what exactly does that_ mean _in angaran?_

When she tells Sid, Sid says, “So what does that mean, exactly? Are you two like, a thing now?”

And Vetra thinks about the gifts Jaal’s left on her bench, and the tone of their banter, and the way he always manages to take his meals the same time she does. She thinks about how often he makes her laugh, and how she never stiffens or backs away when his arm brushes hers now, and how once or twice she’s even leaned into that touch and, well, _really_ liked it.

“I don’t know,” she says, because she really doesn’t. “Angara. They’ve got feelings all over the place. I think we’re just friends.”

“You know there’s actually a way to find out, right?”

Vetra raises her brow plates and Sid rolls her eyes.

“I know this is a tough one, Vet, but what you gotta do is open your mouth and let _words_ come out.”

“Ha, ha,” says Vetra, because of course she _knows_ this. She’s just not sure she wants to hear the answer if she asks. She tells herself it’s because she likes things the way they are.

She’s always been able to lie to protect herself.

Jaal’s family is… overwhelming. Everyone talks at the same time. Everyone laughs. Here, people touch each other all the time. Forget arms brushing arms—there are hugs _everywhere_ and it’s more common to see angara in happy piles of arms and legs and leaning heads than standing alone. A handful of cousins closes around a laughing Sid, promising to show her all kinds of exciting things.

“Mother,” Jaal says, when he introduces Vetra to Sahuna, “this is my—Vetra.”

_My Vetra_ , thinks Vetra, as Sahuna’s arms wrap around her. _This is my Jaal._

But she can’t say it. Can’t be sure. Doesn’t want to assume. _My Vetra_ could be _my friend, Vetra_ just as easily as it could be _the Vetra I want to be mine._

He gives her the stars, just the two of them and whatever it is between them, alone in his childhood room. How different his childhood must have been, surrounded by mothers and siblings and cousins. Like the stones in a wall, he told her once. She thinks she understands better now. The back of his hand brushes the back of her hand and she knows, she _knows_ she could reach out and wrap her fingers around his, but she doesn’t.

She does lean against him, though, just a little. Shoulder to shoulder, looking at a projected sky. _My Jaal_ , she thinks, and wonders, just a little, how well the two stones of Vetra and Sid could fit into this wall.

 

_Elaaden_

He gives her a… poem.

She thinks it’s a poem, anyway. She’s never been all that big on… poetry? So she doesn’t understand a bunch of the metaphors and there’s an awful lot of talk about water considering how generally—and specifically—turians avoid splashing around in the stuff. There’s some really nice stuff about beauty though, and courage, and a particularly poignant stanza (she thinks they’re called stanzas?) about survival and determination.

I mean, she’s pretty sure she’d have to be dead to not appreciate that someone (Jaal, especially) thinks (she thinks?) she’s beautiful and courageous and determined. They’re all good things. She’s pretty sure they’re all things no one’s bothered calling her before, not specifically, and certainly not all at once.

He gives it to her almost nervously. She loves when he’s a bit nervous, actually. She feels like it evens the playing field a bit. It’s written on the crisp, beautiful paper one of the krogan merchants on Elaaden was selling—weird, yeah—and she’d bought thinking he’d like it.

“There was… more I wished to say,” he explains. “But I could not find the words.”

“These, um. These words are great, Jaal. I… you know, I really like these words.”

Before she can stop herself (she’s not sure she wants to stop herself) she presses her brow swiftly to his.

He nods. He shakes his head.

He probably doesn’t even know what her gesture means.

“I do not want you to answer now,” he says, bafflingly. “But—thank you, Vetra Nyx. For considering.”

She reads the poem three-hundred and forty-one times after he backs away from her little office, and she still can’t figure out the question it’s supposedly asking.

 

_Kadara_

“Hey,” she says. “Wake up.”

She’s careful not to stand too close, in case Jaal wakes the way she would: with a knife or a gun in his hand.

He doesn’t. He rolls to his side and blinks into the near-dark. It’s a couple hours until sunrise and the light filtering through the window is dim. The glow of her visor illuminates his outline, even as it spits information at her, rapid-fire. For the first time in a long time, she reaches up and turns it off. A moment later, she takes off her visor completely. She feels naked without it, strangely vulnerable, but it’s a good sort of vulnerability. She thinks. She hopes.

“What is this?” he asks, and damn if his voice isn’t even _better_ all rough and growly with sleep. “Vetra?”

“I’m giving you a present,” she says. “Ryder’s going into the port today, and I’m getting you out before she makes you go with.”

“I _hate_ Kadara port,” he says with real feeling, and she laughs.

“I know, Jaal. We all know. Everyone in the whole galaxy knows. Come on. Get your big purple ass out of bed. We’re on a schedule, here.”

“My… ass,” he says slowly, pushing back the blankets, “is not big.”

It is, however, definitely naked. Actually naked, not just vulnerable-naked. Angarans. _Jaal._ She swallows hard and turns around until she hears the rustle of fabric being pulled on.

“You are not wearing your visor,” he says.

“Yeah, well. Hopefully I’m not going to need to kill anything on the way.”

He laughs again. “We are on Kadara, Vetra.”

He doesn’t wear his eyepiece either, though, she notices.

He doesn’t ask where they’re going. She’s still kind of blown away every time he just _trusts_ her like that, without needing anything in return. She drives the borrowed vehicle a little too fast, watching the ever-lightening darkness of the sky. She can feel Jaal watching her with his pretty blue gaze that always sees too much, but it doesn’t make her nervous anymore. Doesn’t make her want to pull back or hide or deflect. The silence now is companionable instead of strained.

He is game when she insists they climb up the cliff. Of course he doesn’t cheat, and though she wins, she doesn’t think it’s because he let her. He’s grinning when he reaches the top, every exhale almost a laugh. She’s never known anyone quite so able to wholeheartedly _experience_ things. He holds nothing back. The sun rise is a ruddy glow on the horizon. “You are right,” he says. “This is much better than Kadara port. Thank you.”

She says, “I read your poem three-hundred and forty-one times, Jaal. I don’t even know what the question is.” She holds up a hand to stop him before he can speak. “But I have a question—there’s a question I want to ask you.”

_I know this is a tough one, Vet, but what you gotta do is open your mouth and let_ words _come out._

He nods.

“Is this… real?”

She has no visor to hide behind; he has none to distract her.

“This?”

She flicks her fingers, gesturing to herself and then to him. “This. Between us. The… gifts. And the… everything. You like me, I get that, and we’re friends, but—”

“I do not merely _like_ you, dearest,” he interrupts. “ _That_ I thought you knew.” He touches his brow. “You… kissed me, did you not?”

Her mandibles flutter. Her stomach joins them. “I wasn’t sure you’d know what that meant.”

“I have been reading,” he says. “A lot.”

He steps closer, lifting his hands, palms-up. She inhales, catching the faint scent of both his lotion and hers—it’s probably stupid, but they smell _good_ together—and lowers her own hands to his. Their fingers curl around each other. They stand almost as close as angara.

Low, very low, he says, “Do you want this to be, as you say, real?”

She nods. She swallows. She lets the words come out. “Yeah,” she says. “I really do.”


End file.
